


The Longest Nights

by ASilentWren



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASilentWren/pseuds/ASilentWren
Summary: She hasn't been sleeping well. No one can blame her, really - a new world, a new life, it all takes adjustment. She's restless, and she goes looking for a way to feel more at home.She finds it in the kitchen.A short little fic about Beelzebub and MC bonding, growing, and eating.
Relationships: MC/Beelzebub
Comments: 7
Kudos: 139





	The Longest Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! I know this account is more or less dead, since I don't write much fanfiction anymore, but Obey Me has really caught my attention! This was mostly just an idea I fixated on and decided to use as a little warm up.

2:04 AM.

I’m not even sure what that means here. The sun never rises. It never sets. The days just bleed into each other, endless, unchanging, and always just past twilight. It’s so easy to lose track of time. 

I worry about that sometimes. If I have trouble telling the days apart, does that mean I’m losing weeks? Months? Does time pass differently here than it does at home? Has everyone already forgotten me? Will they? 

Is anyone worried? 

2:05. When the display of my DDD fades to black, I press the home button again, casting a narrow beam of light across the room. _My_ room, supposedly. It’s strange to think of any part of this place as mine. An ancient mansion in the center of the underworld, a place apart from human experience, and this is my corner of it. Will I ever get used to that? Is there even a way to come to terms with it? 

2:06. 2:07. I can’t pull my eyes from my phone. 

2:08. 

I sit up. 

There’s a fine sheen of sweat on me. There always is when I wake up. Even when it’s not uncomfortably hot - and it almost never is, at least in my room - it’s like there’s an imperceptible humidity to this place, something you don’t feel until sweat is running down your neck. It creeps up on you. I pull my damp hair up and tie it into an imprecise bun, then roll out of bed. The stone floor is cold when my feet hit it. 

I need fresh air. It’s insane, being cooped up like this. My days are so carefully regimented, an endless string of orchestrated events, being herded from one room to another, it feels like there’s no room to breathe. I can’t breathe in here. I don’t know this place, nothing is mine, and I need to get out. I don’t _think_ it was Diavolo’s intention to treat me like a prisoner, but who can say? It’s not like there’s anyone I can ask. Hey, Lucifer, how free am I, exactly? Any ideas on if I’m allowed to leave my room in the middle of the night?

What would happen if I did?

I hit the home button on my phone again, scanning hopefully for something, any kid of distraction - Mammon hatching a scheme, Levi updating me on whatever he’s playing, anything. But the display stares emptily back up at me. 2:14. Worthless. I start to pace. 

I haven’t slept well since the second night. The first night, strangely, I went out like a light. I don’t know if it was the strangeness, the exhaustion, or the surreality of it all, but it must have caught up to me, because I was dead to the world. Every night since, I’ve tossed, and turned, and paced. And paced, and paced. I’m going to wear a pathway into the flooring if I’m not careful. 

I’ve thought about slipping out. I think about it every night. Lucifer didn’t say I _couldn’t,_ technically. There was some talk of being eaten by wayward demons, but it’s hard to know how much of that to take seriously. Is Lucifer the kind of guy to pull your chain? I’m still trying to figure it out. 

I bite into my thumbnail, thinking. How much could it really hurt just to take a little walk? 

Before I can talk myself out of it, my hand is on the door knob, and I’m slipping silently into the cavernous hallway. 

The House of Lamentation really is something else. Using my phone as a flashlight, I can’t even see the ceiling. I had never considered what kind of living arrangements might appeal to demons, but if you had asked me to guess, this wouldn’t have been it. Somehow a giant, musty mansion full to brimming with gargoyles and medieval paintings seems a little too on the nose for the actual lords of hell. But what else? A castle, like Diavolo? A cave lined with torches and echoing with the screams of the damned? Nothing seems quite right. 

I pad along as quietly as I can, raking my eyes over everything the light of my phone falls on. It’s not like I’ve never paid attention to the halls outside my room before, but it’s a different thing to explore it on my own. A little thrill of excitement runs through me. The marble staircase meets my bare feet, gleaming in the dimness, and I hug the shadows as I make my way down. 

It’s quieter than you would expect. Even in the human world, an old house like this would have its own symphony of settling noises - creaking floorboards, the groans of an aged foundation, even a draft rattling through the halls. That’s not even addressing the boys, who never seem to manage a moment of true silence. But the stillness is nearly absolute tonight. It’s eerie. 

I turn the corner. Down the hall, a light is on. I freeze. 

I should go back. 

The crash comes suddenly. It’s loud enough to rattle my bones, and it shatters the silence. It sounds like a battering ram has plowed through solid concrete. Hot, sharp fear lances through me. I spend a moment wondering wildly if we’re being attacked, and for that matter, what on _earth_ would be capable of attacking the crown princes of hell. Nothing good, I’m guessing. 

Could I make it back to my room without getting caught by whatever made that noise? Maybe. I can be fast, or I can be silent, but I don’t think I can be both. What, then? Hide? Maybe I can duck behind a statue and call for help. Would anyone come fast enough? Is anyone else even up?

Then I hear the moan. Low, agonized. Someone in pain. 

I steel myself. I can’t just hide in the shadows if someone’s hurt. I force myself to take a breath, and take a nervous step forward. 

“Hello?” I call. There’s a quaver in my voice, and I wince. No one responds, but I hear the moan again - louder.

I inch forward. When I get to the door frame, I peek in, and realize I’m standing in the entryway to the kitchen. Lamps flicker along the walls, and I see immediately what the source of the commotion is: the wooden table in the center of the room has been halfway pulverized, and in the rubble lies a familiar figure with a shock of orange hair. 

“Beel?” I ask. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

When he doesn’t answer, I inch a little closer, picking my way carefully past jagged shards of wood. He moans again, startling me backwards. 

“Are you okay?” I try again. “Are you hurt? Should I go get someone?” 

He mumbles something, but the words are too thick to make out. I lean closer, heart hammering double time. 

“...ry…”

“What is it?” I almost whisper.

“...hungry…” 

I stare.

“So hungry…” He turns to look at me. Sweat has collected along his brow, and his face is deathly pale. “Need… to eat.” 

I bite back at the urge to share some choice words with him, instead crossing my arms and sitting back on my heels. “Jeez, you really scared me. You’re in the kitchen, why haven’t you eaten anything?”

He grunts at me, gesturing to the open pantry and shelves, which look like they’ve been ransacked. “Nothing left. Just… flour. And stuff.”

Standing, I peer into the closest cabinet shelf. He’s right. Nothing worth eating, unless he has a mind to devour straight spoonfuls of cornstarch. 

“Why not make yourself a snack?”

Beelzebub looks up at me, and for a moment, his eyes darken and grow sharp. There’s a flicker of something predatory; something I haven’t seen before. My throat begins to tighten. 

“Or I could do it,” I say, quickly. 

He frowns a little. “You cook?”

“I cook all the time.” Or, I did. Before. “Nothing fancy, but I’m not bad. What sounds good?”

Beelzebub moans again, and I scan the shelves with newfound haste. Cockroach flour, condensed bloodberry syrup, some cockatrice eggs in the fridge. Nothing can ever be simple down here. 

“How about some pancakes?” I ask. He doesn’t respond, so pancakes it is. 

Cooking in the Devildom is a pain in the ass. There’s no way around it. There aren’t any appliances, because of course not, so after locating a large bowl and a large skillet, I have to accept the reality of my situation and build a fire over the hearth. It’s slow going, and my hands are shaking; I can feel Beelzebub’s gaze following me through the kitchen. 

“Do you need help?” he asks. His voice is a low rumble, and my breath catches at the interruption. 

“I think I can get it,” I say. “I went camping a lot as a kid.”

“Camping?” 

“Yeah. Do demons not go camping?” I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s sitting up now, but still hasn’t moved from his spot in the center of the destruction. He shakes his head. “Oh. Well, it’s a lot of fun. It’s where you go and spend the night in the wilderness.” 

“Why would you do that?”

“You know, to be close to nature. Get away from the city for a while.” The fire catches and begins to burn. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief and start throwing an imprecise pancake batter together. “You build a fire, set up a tent, go hiking. That kind of thing.”

“Is there food?” 

My lips twitch a little, despite the situation. “Yeah, of course. Anything you can make over a fire. Chili, roasted corn, baked potatoes. Marshmallows and hot chocolate. Do we have marshmallows down here?” 

Beelzebub shakes his head. “I don’t know what that is. How long will it take?”

“The pancakes? Not long. It’s fast work once the pan is hot.” I hurry, turning out cake after cake onto an overlarge serving platter. They puff up larger than I expect them to, and take on a deep, rusty tint, rather than golden brown. Must be the cockroach flour. They smell okay, though, and soon I have a stack more than a foot tall. 

“Do you want syrup or jam?”

Beel’s moan begins to come out as more of a snarl, so I grab both jars and set them within arm’s length. I reach out to hand him the platter, and he rips it from my hands so quickly I startle back, nearly tipping over. 

Watching Beelzebub eat is one of the great wonders of the world. I’ve seen him at meals with the others, of course, but it’s not the same as seeing it up close. There’s something alien to the look in his eye, and he doesn’t seem to need to breathe or blink. It isn’t sloppy, exactly - I would actually say there’s something strangely elegant to it. He’s efficient. It is one specific act, perfected. 

I blink, suddenly struck by the thought. To be stripped down to one thing, so focused and precise, as to perfect it. There’s almost an uncanny beauty to it.

“These are pretty good,” Beel says at last. He’s stuffing the last cake into his mouth as he speaks, and his eyes are now fixed on me. “Thank you.”

I try out a little smile, wrapping my arms around my legs. Whatever danger I saw flashing in his eyes is gone now. “Yeah, of course. Is it okay if I ask what happened?” 

Beel tilts his head at me, and for a wild moment I think of him as a giant bird. “What do you mean?”

I gesture at the wreckage of the kitchen table scattered around us. Beel clears his throat. 

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” 

He shrugs. “I got hungry.”

“Well, I can see that, but why smash the table?”

“I got hungry.” He says it pointedly, as if he thinks I might not be following. 

“So… you smashed the table?” 

He gives me a look, and I realize this is a circular conversation. 

“Right, okay. Makes sense. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

“On the table?” Beel smiles, and I realize the kindness is back in his expression. He holds both hands up for my inspection. There isn’t a scratch on him. “I don’t think something that flimsy could do much damage.”

I gape at him. “Beel, this thing was solid oak.”

“Yeah, I know.” He drops his gaze to the wreckage and frowns. “I shouldn’t have done that. Lucifer’s going to be really annoyed.”

“What were you doing up in the middle of the night, anyway?”

“My stomach woke me up. What about you?” He looks up at me with fresh curiosity, and I begin to squirm. “You shouldn’t be wandering around alone at night.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” I try to sound casual. “I just wanted to take a walk, you know? Burn off some of that nervous energy.”

“You’re feeling nervous?”

“Right now, yes,” I say with a wan, little chuckle. My joke doesn’t land, and Beelzebub just keeps peering at me. “It’s just weird, you know? I’m still getting used to everything. Nothing’s familiar and I guess I’m trying to get acclimated. The house, the schedule, the room.”

“Do you not like your room?” He’s frowning when he asks, and his eyes are serious. Something in the way he’s watching me, like I have his complete attention, makes me want to smile. 

“That’s not it,” I say. “I actually really love the room. It’s exactly the kind of place I always wanted to live in, with the big bed and the tree and the ivy everywhere.”

“Plants grow a little wild in there. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I love plants. I have a garden at home. It would just be coming into bloom about now, actually.” The thought sends a pang through my chest. I wonder if anyone is there to water the tomatoes and pluck the pea pods, or if everything has already died. 

“Do you grow food?” He leans closer, suddenly captivated by the topic, and I almost laugh. 

“Human food, but yes. I like to stay busy, and my garden makes me feel useful.” 

“Producing food is _very_ useful,” he says, and there’s such conviction in his voice that I actually do laugh. “So what’s wrong, then? If it’s not your room.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s nothing you’ve done.”

His eyes narrow. “Mammon?”

“Nothing anyone has done,” I clarify. “It’s not that something’s wrong, exactly. It’s just that… I mean, I don’t really know anyone here, you know? This whole thing happened really suddenly, and I didn’t get much of a say in it.”

“You’re homesick?”

It isn’t until he says it out loud that I realize it’s true. It’s a little more complicated than that, maybe - it’s not as if I had some great life I’m dying to get back to, but there were things I could call my own. My bed, my room. My little garden plot. I had a little square of the world carved out for myself, and now I have nothing. 

I’m alarmed to find myself blinking tears from my eyes. Worse, Beel picks himself up from the shattered remains of the table and moves to my side, eyebrows sloped in worry. 

“You’re crying.”

“Nah,” I say, swiping at my eyes. “My eyes are watering. I must just be tired.”

“It’s okay to cry.” His voice is warm and gentle, and to my surprise, his gigantic hand curls softly around mine. “I never really thought about your life in the human world. What was it like?” 

I shrug. No one has asked me about that yet. Not a single person. “Nothing special. I went to class, made dinner, watched movies. Kind of just did the same stuff over and over.” 

“Do you miss your family?”

I shake my head. “I don’t really have a family to miss. I’ve been on my own for a long time.” 

“That’s awful.” 

It’s not that bad, I want to say. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You get used to it. But the tears are still threatening, and when Beel wraps one arm carefully around my shoulder, I don’t fight it. My body shakes as I cry, but I don’t make a sound. His chin rests on the top of my head. My fingernails dig half-moon imprints in my palms. I shake, and I cry, and all I can hear is the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

“Maybe we can put in a garden for you,” he says, and I look up at last. “I think there used to be one out back, but now it’s all overgrown. It would be nice to do something useful with the space.”

“Really?” My voice is miserable and hoarse, and I hate myself for it, but Beel only smiles. 

“I’ll ask Lucifer, but I bet he won’t mind. I’ll even help you get the weeds out. Does that sound okay?” 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask. It’s not what I want to say, but the words are out before I can think about it. Beel just shrugs, that same open, honest look on his face. 

“You cooked for me.” 

I sniff, and then start to laugh. It’s a rough, ugly, hiccuping sort of laugh, but Beel doesn’t seem to mind. He stands, then reaches a hand down to help me up. When I take it, he scoops me up and into his arms. 

“Whoa!” I gasp. “What-?”

“Splinters,” he says, simply. “You’re in your bare feet. Lucifer would kill me if I got you hurt. He’s always talking about how fragile humans are. Is it true you can just drop dead from a tiny cut?”

“Not exactly,” I say, unnerved. “I mean, I guess if it’s infected and you don’t get it treated, maybe.”

Beel shakes his head. “I’ll never understand how your kind has lasted so long.” 

“Dumb luck, I guess.” 

“Don’t be so down on yourself. You seem pretty smart to me.” 

I snort, and he carries me from the room, stepping over gigantic chunks of splintered wood with an unusual, easy grace. Once we reach the hall, he sets me carefully back down. I take a deep, steadying breath. 

“All good?” he asks.

I nod. “All good.” 

“Think you can sleep now?” 

I nod again. And it’s true enough. The nervous buzzing in my head has quieted, and a heavy sense of calm has taken its place. I realize how drowsy I’ve become, and suddenly, I begin to ache for my bed. The beautiful canopied bed in the beautiful ivy-dotted room they tell me is mine. 

“Okay. I’ll walk you back to your room, then.”

“I’m sure I can make it back on my own.”

He shakes his head. “Lucifer’s right, it really isn’t safe for you to be walking around on your own. If you take a wrong turn, you could run into Cerberus or something.”

The blood drains from my face. “ _What?_ ”

He grins, and I can’t tell how serious he is, but I allow him to take my hand and guide me down the hallway. Up the stairs, through wide swaths of moonlight, through the east wing until we reach the familiar door to my room.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says. I smile a little. 

“No problem. I’ve missed cooking. Maybe I could try a few other recipes for you?” 

Beelzebub lights up, and my heart gives a sweet little shudder. He bends, and to my surprise, brushes his lips so gently, so faintly across my cheek. 

“I’ll look forward to it. Sleep well.”

And somehow, I do.


End file.
